Battlestar Frakkeduptica
by Megalomaniac2
Summary: Sometime after Exodus, Zarek's latest scheme sets out to expose the sordid lunacy which is the Battlestar Galactica. He certainly has his work cut out for him...
1. In Which Zarek Talks Too Much

Aboard the prison-ship-cum-evil-lair _Astral Queen,_ subversive mastermind Tom Zarek addressed his inner circle. Unfortunately, since his last right-hand man had very inconsiderately gotten his brains blown out on Kobol, and because most of his other followers were none-too-bright convicts who could barely be trusted to handle objects with moving parts on the ship without causing a reactor failure, Zarek's inner circle at the moment consisted of one individual. The good news was that this individual was one of the most trusted beings in Tom's life, having been with him since his childhood, back when little Tommy was amusing himself with sparking paper-airplane revolutions in his first-grade classroom. The bad news was that the individual in question was Walter, Zarek's stuffed daggit.

Alone in the room with him, the battered, ancient toy sat at a table facing Tom as he spoke. "Gentlemen- well, gentledaggit. I have a plan. A plan for casting down the corrupt sub-fascist militarist system in power, and replacing it with a more enlightened leadership." He clasped his hands to his chest modestly. "Namely my own."

The toy's flat, black eyes stared into his own. Probing. Pointing. As they always had. Tom shifted uncomfortably. "I know I already had the Presidency and willingly handed it back to Roslin. But I didn't exactly have a lot of options. Roslin has Adama's backing, and after that stunt he pulled during the Exodus from New Caprica, his popularity in the Fleet was so high that he could have ordered every single person in the human race to fellate him and they would have simply lined up on _Galactica's _flight deck to get on their knees. Thank the gods he isn't the sort of man who would go overboard with his power."

MEANWHILE, IN THE ADMIRAL'S QUARTERS…

"You wanted to see me Admiral?" Chief Tyrol asked apprehensively. Ever since the act of sheer badassedness he'd performed with the _Galactica_ over New Caprica, everyone in the Fleet- Tyrol included- had been taking Adama's unofficial nickname of 'Zeus' more seriously than usual, and there were signs that the 'Adama Fan Clubs' springing up among the children of the Fleet were beginning to erode the Admiral's natural modesty. _Naah.._ thought Tyrol. _It's Adama. He would never let _anything_ go to his head._

"Stay standing Chief, this won't take long," Adama said. "It's about my Vipers."

"Gods, what now? If Starbuck and Kat got into another one of their "I'm more psychotically reckless than you are" contests-"

"It's not that Chief. It's just that they're dirty."

Tyrol blinked. "…Dirty, sir?"

"Filthy," Adama said. "Inexcusably filthy. Every part and member of this ship combines to form an image, Chief. That image has to be good. If some parts of that image contrast with each other- like, for instance, dirty Vipers under the command of a brilliant, physics-defying Admiral- people might get confused. We don't want people confused, do we Chief?"

"Um… no, we don't want confusion, sir," the Chief replied, despite currently suffering from that very same ailment.

"I want them cleaned. Every single ship. The Raptors too. From the landing gear wells to under the seats, I want them all to be frakkin' spotless. So that they'll be worthy of this ship. And its commander. Do you understand, Chief?"

"I'll… tell my people to get right on it," Tyrol said, suddenly wishing for a drink, and a competent psychiatrist.

"No, no, Chief. Your people aren't touching my ships. Oh no," Adama shook his head. "I want only the best touching the ships. That's you Chief," he pointed at Tyrol, whose heart was currently sinking. "You're the best. You're the only one who gets to touch the ships. Aside from the pilots, obviously. But you're the only one who gets to fix them and clean them, get it?"

"Admiral, I don't think… Well, permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Oh, by all means Chief," Adama made an inviting gesture. "No doubt you want to thank me once again for kicking the asses of both the Cylons and the laws of physics, and in doing so saving you, your wife, and your child from a lifetime of Cylon occupation on a mudhole planet under a weasel President. That _is_ what you want to say, isn't it Chief?"

Tyrol hung his head. Even sanity was powerless in the face of overwhelming badassery. "Yes, sir."

"Well, you're welcome. One more thing, Chief."

"Yes?' Tyrol's body went rigid. Surely it couldn't get any worse…

"Like I said, nothing but the best touches my ships," Adama said. "That means none of your greasy engineer's rags. Only pure silk."

"I… Where would I find…"

"There are exactly two silk handkerchiefs in the entire Fleet." Adama held up a small square of silk. "I use this to clean my glasses. No one lays a hand on it but me." He held up an even smaller square of silk. "I was planning to use this one to polish my boots, but nowadays I can get folks to do that with their tongues. Sometimes I make them fight each other for the privilege. So you take this," he tossed the silk to Tyrol, "and you just scrub your little heart out on my ships until they are all as beautiful as their commander. The handkerchief will probably get dirty eventually, so wash it as many times as you need to."

"Thank you, sir." Very carefully, trying to hold back tears, Tyrol pocketed the silk. "Will there be anything else?"

"Well… now that you mention it, I have been a little bored…" The Admiral's eyes narrowed. "Dance." The Chief's eyes widened, and Adama nodded. "You heard me. Dance. Sing, too. Something uplifting. Now dance!"

Outside the Admiral's quarters, the crew of the Galactica went about their daily business. Through the door, a voice could be heard belting out "At first I was afraid! I was petrified! Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side…" while another voice cried "Excellent! Keep it up! C'mon, put your legs into it! Dance! Dance!" If any of the crew heard this, they gave no sign.

BACK ON THE ASTRAL QUEEN

"Look, the point is, if I'd made a move to hold onto power after the Exodus, I would have had zero popular support. In the 'angry mob throwing me out of an airlock' sense of the term. But now, thanks to my plan, that will all change." Zarek paused dramatically. "It's called blackmail."

The empty eyes across from him looked unimpressed.

"Hear me out here." Tom held up his hands as he tried to justify himself to a stuffed toy. "Despite what the mindless masses have been taught to think, the people on _Galactica_ and in the government are not perfect. On the contrary. They are, in fact, the most frakked-up bunch of motherfrakkers I have ever seen, in all my life, _ever_. And I've been hanging out with terrorists and criminals since I was twelve. And in their imperfections and failings lies my victory." He started counting off scandals, oddities, embarrassments, and lunacies on his fingers. "First, no one seems to have held the President to account for taking hallucinogenic drugs, and everyone's taking it for granted that she's quit now that the cancer's gone. I'll have to fix that. Second, the sexual tension between her and the Admiral is through the roof, which is a potentially disastrous conflict of interest in more ways than one. Speaking of which, how the frak did Adama get away with putting his own son in command of the _Pegasus?_ Hello, nepotism! And why's Tigh still in command after everything…"

Time passed. The Fleet moved on through space. People worked, played, slept, and angsted. Zarek's followers aboard the _Astral Queen_ wondered where their leader was. Considering that they were all anarchist follower types, it wasn't long before a conspiracy theory began to spread, namely that Adama and Roslin had arranged for Cylon agents to infiltrate the ship and murder Zarek so that they could start a war for oil. Deciding to search the ship for the agents, the convicts distributed flashlights amongst themselves. The ship was very well-lit, but everyone knows that when conspiracies are involved, a great deal of running around with flashlights is only appropriate. Unfortunately, the switches on the flashlights counted as moving parts, rendering them unfit for safe usage by the convicts. A great many painfully pinched fingertips later, the plan was abandoned.

Meanwhile, Zarek, who had long since run out of fingers, continued to talk, building up a head of rhetorical steam as he paced back and forth in front of the stuffed animal, whose black eyes never closed or strayed. Always watching.

"…married to a Cylon; hell, the whole ship's practically an orgy, the Comm officer used to be frakking the President's aide, but now she's frakking the Admiral's son, who wants to frak Thrace, who once frakked Baltar, which just _proves_ something's wrong with her- yes, I know Baltar's attractive, but _still_…"

Zarek pushed his oratorical skills to their limit, and more than once almost collapsed on the floor as he gasped for breath, struggling to finish listing the sexual scandals, psychological issues, sexual tensions, unanswered crimes, sexual affairs, sordid secrets, sexual complications, interpersonal conflicts, and sexual sexy stuff which seemed to characterize every waking moment of the lives of the people on whom humanity's survival depended. Outside the room, wild accusations were traded between the _Astral Queen's_ crew regarding the identity of the government spy who had surely sabotaged the flashlights. And the whole time, Walter sat there, wide black eyes taking it all in. Seeing. Understanding.

"…gods damned amateurish way to run a terror cell, if you ask me, everyone knows you get results by blowing up buildings, not people, but has anyone mentioned it? Noooo. And he killed his wife, who frakked half the Fleet if you believe the stories, and Specialist Cally murdered a prisoner in cold blood, and Tyrol, who was frakking the prisoner, beat her to a pulp, and then married her, don't know how that works, and none of the members of that death tribunal I set up have been brought to justice. Which they should be, in a way which in no shape or form implicates me." Another deep breath. "Oh, and Adama's moustache was hideous. We can use that against him."

At last, his long labour over, Zarek collapsed into a chair, panting. "So you see it. The political ammunition the sordid freaks at the top have gifted us with is almost limitless, and is all the more potent considering how high the populace's opinion of its leaders is right now. A few harsh reminders of mistakes made, an affair or two revealed for the tabloids, and the entire political structure gets shaken to its core. Unless, of course, my demands are acceded to."

The toy facing him was still not looking impressed.

"Look, I'm not talking about causing a society-wide revolution with a few pieces of gossip," Zarek protested. "Just some mild political concessions to start with- a high-profile advisory position next to the President for example- No, I am not doing this to get close to Roslin! She will be overthrown like the rest of the corrupt government power structure when the time is right." Zarek paused, considering. "Though it might be good to keep her alive and nearby. Just as a figurehead of course…"

The look on Walter's face transcended the unimpressed, and told Zarek _Be glad that I can't move my eyes, or else I'd be rolling them right now, lover-boy._

"Oh, to hell with you!" Furious at the lack of sycophancy from his childhood toy, Zarek stormed out of the room to relate his plan to the rest of his minions. Little did he know what he was about to set in motion. If he had known, surely he would have turned around and… oh, who the hell are we kidding? It's chaos and Tom Zarek. It wouldn't have made a bit of difference.


	2. Mister Keraz Goes to the Galactica

Zarek had gathered his various minions in the hall that had once contained their jail cells, which were now being used in "Uncle Zarek's 100 Legitimate and Non-Sinister Fleet Petting Zoo". They were all very glad to see him healthy and non-assassinated, and were very attentive as he finished explaining his ninth master plan, which he had cunningly codenamed… Master Plan Nine.

"So in order to do this blackmail thing right, I'm going to have to infiltrate the _Galactica_ to gather hard evidence of everybody's shameful conduct. Or possibly plant some, if it's necessary. Or if it looks like fun. Look, the point is, you might have to get along without me for a few days, and I expect the _Astral Queen_ to be intact and _not covered in Jell-O_ when I return. Do I make myself clear, Ethan?" The convict in question lowered his head in shame.

"Um… Zarek?" Leo, one of the less sycophantic followers, timidly raised his hand. "Won't the people on _Galactica_ be a little suspicious about you going around asking questions?" Leo cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth; on the _Astral Queen,_ those who questioned the guy responsible for their freedom tended to have night time encounters with bars of soap in socks, also known as 'Pegasus Specials'. But Zarek was grateful for the chance to monologue further. Usually, around Roslin and Adama, he had to keep his schemes to himself, for obvious airlock-related reasons.

"Every single detail has been accounted for through meticulous planning, Leo," Zarek assured him. "It took some time, but I was able to come up with a way for me to conduct my business on the _Galactica_ without anyone suspecting a thing. Watch carefully."

Zarek turned away from the convicts dramatically. "Say goodbye to Tom Zarek, future revolutionary leader of the human race. Say hello to…"

The man at the front of the crowd turned back towards them, now sporting a flamboyantly upturned handlebar moustache. "Mr. Keraz!"

Gasps of shock rippled through the crowd, swiftly replaced by cries of anger.

"Who is this guy?"

"Where'd he come from?"

"What happened to Zarek?"

"Where'd Zarek go?"

"He must have done something to him!"

"He's with the government!"

"GET HIM!"

'Keraz' (inwardly, Zarek was still congratulating himself on the sheer inventiveness of the alias) hastily removed the moustache. "It's me, you twits!" he cried, as the onrushing mob stopped dead in its astounded tracks at the transformation. "It's called a disguise. _Dis_-guise." He pronounced it carefully for them. "It's what's going to allow me to get or create the goods on the heroes and leaders of the Fleet without detection."

An "aaaah…." of understanding rippled through the crowd. Most of it, at least. Zarek sighed.

"This reminds me. As I said, I might have to be gone for a while, and the Lords of Kobol know you people can't be trusted to take care of yourselves without me."

"You can count on us, Zarek!" Someone in the crowd yelled. "We won't let you down!"

Tom scowled. "If I can count on you so much, then why are there no more flashlights on the entire ship?"

"We threw them out the airlock, sir," Leo said. "They were working with the government."

"Ah," said Tom. "The flashlights were government agents, were they?"

"Exactly!" Someone else in the crowd- Tom thought his name was Nort or Newt or something- cried. "Think about it! Who manufactured flashlights before the attack on the Colonies? _Corporations!_ That's who!"

"Think of how perfect it is," Leo said ominously. "Every ship in this fleet has at least one flashlight, and many of them have hundreds. _Hundreds_ of corporate-programmed flashlights, just lying innocently in their flashlight-container-things, waiting for the time to strike- to pinch!" Many of the convicts held up their pinched fingers as proof of the flashlights' malevolent powers.

"Evil flashlights. Got it." Zarek sighed. "Thank you, Leo for proving my point." Yet in some eternally paranoid corner of his mind, the idea was turned over, examined, and "Flashlights: evil? Check into corporations" was scrawled into the notebook of Zarek's subconscious. "Anyway, while I'm gone, I'm placing someone else in charge. You are to follow his commands as you would my own, without question." Zarek turned around, picked up something behind him, and then placed the _Astral Queen's_ interim leader in front of the crowd. The flat, expressionless eyes of Walter stared out at his new minions.

"I expect you all to do exactly what Walter says while I'm gone," Zarek said.

Leo spoke up again. "But… Zarek… it's a toy. It's probably going to say nothing."

Zarek smiled. "Well then, if that's the case, then that's exactly what you should do: nothing. And I'm sure every appliance on the _Astral Queen_ will breathe a sigh of relief because of it."

Fifteen minutes later, Zarek's shuttle had departed for another civilian ship, from which it would go to the Battlestar _Galactica._ He left behind some very confused followers.

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Leo asked. "He told us to obey a toy! A toy!"

"Without question, too," Ethan mused.

"What's the problem?" Another follower asked. "Tom said that if Walter didn't say anything, we shouldn't do anything."

"But what if it does say something?" Ethan said. "He's Zarek's trusted right-hand daggit! He _must_ be nearly as intelligent and persuasive and talkative as Zarek himself is!"

Frightened murmurs swept through the crowd. "He's probably speaking to us right now," Nort said. "He's probably so intelligent that our puny unworthy minds simply cannot grasp his advanced stuffed-daggit language!"

This was Ethan's cue to start freaking out. "But we're supposed to do whatever he says! How are we going to do that if we can't fathom his mind? For all we know, he could be ordering us right now to regress to a primitive, cult-like society and perform human sacrifices!"

Another voice spoke from the crowd. "Well, we wouldn't want to let Tom down, would we? Maybe, just to be on the safe side, we should get some paint and…"

The conversation went rapidly downhill from there.

* * *

Exquisite moustache firmly in place, Mr. Mot Keraz of the Fleet Press Corps stepped aboard the Battlestar _Galactica,_ just one of many civilians paying a visit to the last BattlestarEach of them filed through a checkpoint staffed by two Colonial Marines. In front of Zarek, a teenaged couple held hands as their papers were examined.

"Purpose of your visit?" asked one of the Marines. The boy smiled.

"We're going to spend the afternoon in the observation lounge," he said, squeezing the girl's hand and giving her a ridiculously sappy look.

"Ah, grown tired of the relationship, have you ma'am?" The other Marine asked the girl as he signed a form. "Excellent choice."

"Wait, what?" The boy cast a look of confusion from Marine to girlfriend and back again with remarkable speed.

"Oh, the Billy Keikeya Memorial Observation Lounge is a funny place," the first Marine said, oblivious to the frantic shushing noises being made by the girl. "Ever since Keikeya bit it and the Lounge was renamed after him, it's still one of the most romantic spots in the Fleet, but…"

"Stop scaring the kids," said the second Marine. "You're just repeating tabloid gossip. There's probably a perfectly logical explanation for why, since Keikeya's death, so many of the couples who visit the Lounge for their dates end their relationships shortly afterwards, and for why this is often due to the male of the couple dying a tragic yet frustratingly contrived death."

"I'm telling you, it's the curse!" Protested Marine Number One. "Keikeya's vengeful spirit is making sure that every other guy in the Fleet gets screwed over just as badly as he did!"

Marine Number Two shook his head. By now they were both ignoring the couple, the female of which was now burying her head in her hands and trying to ignore her boyfriend's pleas for information. "Look, even if the President's aide did leave some sort of ghost behind, do you really think he was the sort of guy who would be interested in vengeance?"

"Point," Number One said. "Maybe it has something to do with Dualla, then. Like, some sort of curse caused by what she did."

"Apollo does always seem to find an excuse not to go in there," Number Two agreed.

"Um…" the boy began to say that maybe there were other places he'd like to go today, but the Marines were having none of it.

"Come on, you two, can't change your minds now," Number One said as he bustled them on their way. "Once you've gotten on the ship and signed the forms, the schedule's fixed and altering it involves more paperwork for us."

"But I don't wanna die!" The teenager protested.

"And I don't want to do more paperwork. Next!"

The couple disappeared down the hall, arguing vociferously about the girl's method of expressing her disappointment with the relationship, as Keraz stepped forward. "Mot Keraz, Fleet Press Corps. I'm going to be doing a story on the _Galactica's_ leadership and-" Keraz stopped talking rather abruptly as a rifle was shoved into his face. _What? Have they recognized me?_ He thought. _Impossible! The moustache is perfect! The moustache cannot fail!_

"Just hand me your papers very carefully and slowly," Number Two said. "The last reporter who wanted to do a story on us was a Cylon."

"Boy, were our faces red after that one," Number One said. "We spent practically a year talking about how nice that lady was, and then the Cylons pop into New Caprica and guess who we see at the head of the Centurions?"

"And she captured my good side, too," Number Two pouted. "Usually I photograph terribly, but she made me look totally badass."

"And before her, guess who else handled public relations for _Galactica_? Doral." One said.

"Although any idiot could have seen that anyone who wears suits like those is evil," Two interjected.

"So you see, there's something of a pattern going on here," One said as he examined Keraz's papers. "Fortunately, you don't look like any known Cylon model, and your papers check out, so I guess you're an exception to the 'journalists-on-Galactica-are-up-to-no-good-rule."

"Yes. Yes I certainly am." _Must… restrain… maniacal… laughter…_"And may I take this opportunity to commend you Marines on your vigilance."

"Oh, thanks!" Two said. "Yeah, we're totally all over the security thing. I mean, we weren't able to keep the ex-schoolteacher President prisoner, and whenever we actually do fight Cylons we usually get turned into hamburger, but aside from that we're totally dedicated to your safety and- hey, is my gun even loaded?" Two raised the rifle to his face and squinted down the barrel as One took over for him.

"Yeah, we do our best, although there was that one time our Master-at-Arms tried to mutiny against Adama. Hooo boy, that didn't work out well for her. But we're really good at overthrowing civilians, and sometimes we even get to-"

By now, Keraz had fully braced himself for a full and painful recounting of the less-than stellar record of the Colonial Marines, but was spared when the speakers in the hallway crackled to life.

"Attention all hands. This is the Admiral. Drop your pants." Adama paused. "That is all." The speakers fell silent again amidst the sounds of flies unzipping.

"What the hell?" Keraz had to raise his voice to be heard above the collective _whumph_ of over a thousand pairs of pants falling to the floor all over the Battlestar. It's probably just as well that Colonel Tigh wasn't around or Tom might have had a lawsuit on his hands.

"Oh, the Admiral does stuff like that these days," One said as he kicked his pants off, revealing what Keraz could only assume were standard Marine undergarments. "At first he refused all the favours and stuff people were offering him for getting us off of New Caprica, then he started accepting a few, then he started calling them in himself, and now… Hey, why are your pants still on?"

Zarek was about to explain to the Marine in no uncertain terms exactly why his pants weren't going anywhere. But then he realized that if not for Adama, he probably _would_ still be on New Caprica. And the thing with the atmospheric FTL jump was so badass…

Tom watched with horror, unable to resist, as his hands began creeping towards his zipper of their own accord. _Of all the days to wear the underpants with the little red Vipers,_ he though miserably.

Mot Keraz had well and truly arrived aboard the Battlestar _Galactica._

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long to write, but not as sorry as I am that this story is now going on hiatus. Quite simply, _Battlestar Galactica _is a near-impossible show to parody. For one thing, it's so damn awesome that finding weaknesses is occasionally difficult; for another thing, it takes itself so seriously that one has to invent most of the humour instead of building on previous comedy. But the main problem is that the entire show changes EVERY SINGLE EPISODE. There is no status quo, no stable environment for satire to be constructed within. The post-Exodus environment this story is set in is already completely obsolete. I mean, half the people I'm writing about could be dead or revealed to be Cylons by the time the next chapter is ready!

This show is simply too much of a moving target for me to parody it well while it's running. So I'll probably pick this story up again after the Season Finale, when I'm sure that things aboard the Rag-Tag Fleet aren't going to turn themselves upside-down while I'm writing about them. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed so far, and I look forward to resuming this work in the future.


	3. Enter the Cottle

A/N: Well, I said I'd pick this story up again after the Season Finale. But after the mindfrak Ronald Dean Moore threw us with "Crossroads"… uh-uh. I'm not even going to try to touch that. I conceived "Battlestar Frakkeduptica" as a sort of blanket project, a story which would skewer all things Battlestar in one deft thrust. Having realized my folly, I am instead going to start a series of less ambitious Battlestar parodies focusing on certain characters and situations instead of trying to encompass the entire screwed-up show. Before that, though, I thought it was only fair to give Zarek's unfortunate venture into the world of journalism a fitting send-off. To that effect, this will be the second-last chapter.

* * *

A few hours later, a haggard, borderline-despairing 'Mot Keraz' stumbled through the halls of the Galactica. Before this particular scheme, Zarek had lived most of his life by some basic, sternly adhered-to principles: "Redheads are hot", "Any government without Tom Zarek at its head is a government worth overthrowing," "Speak eloquently and carry a long assassination list," "Hanging out with Gaius Baltar will make you look better by comparison, no matter what you do," and, last but not least, "You can never have too much dirt on anyone." Interviewing the crew of the Battlestar _Galactica_ had placed Zarek's faith in the latter principle in serious jeopardy. There were things, shadowy, terrifying, and unbound by sense or reason, which man was simply Not Meant to Know.

Take Galen Tyrol, for instance. The Chief had kindly taken a break from cleaning every Viper and Raptor on Galactica with a single silk handkerchief to have a few words with 'Mot Keraz', who had been smart enough not to ask about Tyrol's thankless task.

"Now, what the Agathons do in private is none of my business, alright? I know that," Tyrol had said. "It's just that they keep requisitioning _my_ tools and _my _equipment for 'maintenance work', and just between you and me? I'm willing to bet that the only machine those two are doing maintenance on is Sharon herself. And don't ask me how it works, don't ask me for any details, don't ask me what the _frak_ anyone could be doing with an electrospanner that doesn't involve electrospanning… when I was with the other Sharon we did things the old-fashioned way, okay? But I know, man, I know. I mean- I'm the one who has to clean those things off when they return them the next morning, y'know, and let's just say they aren't covered with machine oil." Tyrol had paused and grimaced. "Well, actually they are, among other things, but it's not any sort of oil that I've ever- oh, Gods. You know what? Forget it. Just… forget it. Talking about it just makes it worse." And with that, Tyrol had gone back to weeping quietly as he scrubbed the wheel wells of Raptor 407 with the tiny white handkerchief.

After that, Zarek hadn't gotten any journalism done for a while, what with the half hour of straight vomiting, praying, and crying which had followed. But, after getting himself together and making a mental note to throw every single tool on the _Astral Queen_ out the airlock so that he might actually have a chance at sleeping again sometime during his life, Zarek had forged ahead, consoling himself with the knowledge that all great revolutionaries must endure some hardship, or, in this case, psychological trauma.

Next on the list had been Louanne 'Kat' Katraine, reputed archnemesis of _Galactica__'__s_ best Viper pilot. If anyone could dish up some dirt on hotshot Viper pilot Starbuck, Zarek had reasoned, it would be her. Of course, if Zarek had known Starbuck better, he would have saved himself some time and simply mentioned Starbuck's name to any random person in the Fleet, including Starbuck herself.

"Yeah, Starbuck thinks she's so great, but she's really not." Kat had told 'Keraz'. "I'm much better than her. At everything."

"Okay… Could you be more specific, Captain?"

"Well, I totally won our last "I'm-more-psychotically-reckless-than-you-are" contest," Kat had said. "Oh, and this one time, we had a bet on who would blow up Scar, and I won. She filled up my beer mug. It was awesome."

'Keraz' had frowned. "That's, uh, very interesting, Captain, very interesting, but I'm looking more for Starbuck's _personal_ faults?"

"I just told you." Katraine's voice had taken on a slight edge. "She thinks she's so great, but I'm better than her. I'm a better Viper pilot, a better prima donna, a better troublemaker- I don't care how many officers she's punched, nothing tops drug addiction! Nothing!- and I'm closing in on her fast in the neuroses department. And I swear I'll frak Baltar twice as good as she ever did as soon as he gets out of jail."

"Is there any aspect of your life that isn't defined by Starbuck?" 'Keraz' had asked.

Kat had just stared blankly at him for a full minute before finally replying "I blew up Scar before Starbuck did. It was awesome." 

"Interesting. Say, did you hear? Starbuck is telling everybody that she can hold her breath longer than you can."

"Nuh-uh!" And with that, Kat had promptly proceeded to hold her breath until she passed out on the flight deck.

Zarek had walked off, chuckling and thinking _What an annoying person. I hope she dies of something painful, like radiation poisoning or something. _

The rest of 'Keraz's' interviews had followed a similar pattern of covering Things Zarek Did Not Want to Know. Whether it was Lieutenant Gaeta complaining about then-President Baltar making him change the bedsheets after each perverted tryst, or Dualla's talk-show worthy dissertation of the difficulties of having one's commanding officer as a father in law, every person on _Galactica_ had given Zarek all the dirt he could possibly handle.

Well, except for Colonel Tigh. 'Keraz's' interview with him had been a letdown in terms of dirt. It had consisted of an extraordinarily drunk Tigh cursing at him, insulting his ancestry, hurling used, soiled eyepatches at him, declaring that all journalists were traitors who needed to be thrown in the brig for good, and threatening to kill him. Zarek had left the XO's quarters disappointed. The interview had just proven that Colonel Tigh was a drunken, murderous madman with no regard for the principles of democracy, and Zarek was looking for things that _weren__'__t _already common knowledge to everybody in the Fleet.

As if the multiple forms of mental and emotional trauma weren't enough, Admiral Adama had never seen fit to rescind his order on the PA. So for the past few hours, Zarek had been shuffling around the cold corridors of _Galactica_ and trying to carry out interviews with obvious lunatics while in his little-red-Viper underpants, with each and every other person he encountered in a similar sorry state, going about their daily duties with their pants around their ankles. Zarek could have gone the rest of his life without learning how many members of the _Galactica_ crew favoured thongs.

_All in all, _he thought, _the only way this ship could be more screwed up is if half the people I just interviewed turned out to be Cylons. But of course, that would just be completely ridiculous. _His time on _Galactica_ had convinced Zarek that slogging through interviews with every freakshow on the Battlestar was not a viable strategy for anything but a permanent mental breakdown.

This was why he was now headed to the infirmary, to enact his brilliant backup plan, which he modestly believed to be absolutely Gordian in its efficiency. Rather than get his dirt from each individual crewmember himself, Zarek would simply convince Doctor Cottle to release their medical records to him. Then it would simply be a matter of jotting down some notes on who was on what drug and had which venereal disease before he could call it a day, return to the _Astral Queen,_ and lock himself in his quarters for some badly-needed quality time with Walter.

The only thing he needed was for Doctor Cottle to be cooperative for a few minutes. And who had ever heard of Cottle being less than fully cooperative with anyone?

* * *

A few minutes later 'Keraz' entered the busy infirmary, filled with pantless patients being tended to by pantless orderlies. Doctor Cottle stood tall in the middle of it all, perusing a clipboard, the only person in the room- indeed, on the ship- with his pants still fully fastened and pulled up to his waist. No one seemed to find this odd.

'Keraz' approached the Doctor confidently and directly. "Hello Doctor, could I have a minute of your time? I'm doing a story-"

"Do you have an appointment, Mr. Vice President?" Cottle interrupted, not looking up from his clipboard. Smoke drifted upwards into Zarek's face from the cigarette clenched in the Doctor's mouth.

'Keraz' paused for a moment, taken aback. "Oh- oh no, Doctor, you misunderstand. I'm not our devilishly handsome and politically astute Vice President, Tom Zarek, who you should totally support by the way. I'm just humble, ordinary, Mot Keraz, a journalist trying to profile-"

Annoyed, Cottle looked up from his clipboard, ready to snap something crushing at the interloper. His eyes widened as he beheld Zarek's disguise. "Good Gods Zarek! What do you have on your face?"

"I'm not Za-"

"Huh!" Cottle snorted derisively. "It looks like a damned squirrel's clinging to your mouth. And I thought Adama's moustache looked bad… If you set out to lose my vote with that thing Zarek, congratulations. Now, do you want an appointment or not?"

Zarek's jaw clenched. The disguise had been discredited. The plan had been complicated. The moustache had been insulted. This could not stand. Within his mind, Doctor Cottle joined Admiral Adama, Gaius Baltar, and That Guy Who Always Takes All The Toilet Paper In _Colonial One's_ Men's Room on Tom's "People Who Will Be First Against the Wall When the Revolution Comes" list.

_All right, Cottle,_ thought Zarek. _You want to play hardball, we'll play Tom-ball. You're giving me those medical records, moustache or no moustache. Let's see what you've got…_

* * *

A/N: There you have it folks. The setup for "Battlestar Frakkeduptica's" climax: Beloved Recurring Character versus Beloved Recurring Character, Schemer versus Snarker, Zarek versus Cottle. Place your bets and write your reviews. Will Tom get any information out of Cottle? Will Cottle get this frakkin' lunatic out of his infirmary so he can get some Gods-damned work done? Is Adama ever going to snap out of it? Will everyone get to put their pants back on? Can Tyrol possibly clean every ship on _Galactica_ with a single handkerchief? And what the frak is wrong with Starbuck anyway? Seriously.

Stay tuned next time for confrontations, Bill/Laura cuteness, violations of political and medical ethics alike, blatant canonical distortions, and the setup for the next story next time, on the exciting (or at least mildly amusing) conclusion of "Battlestar Frakkeduptica!"

(Insert dramatic musical cue here)

(Roll credits)

(Insert amusingly violent R&D animation here)


	4. In Which Many Suffer

A/N: I was originally planning to have this thing done in May or June, but a whole 'nother couple of scenes popped into my head and WOULDN'T GO AWAY, despite how monumentally silly they were (you'll see what I mean). Hence, the chapter is about twice as long and thrice as late as I first intended.

* * *

Zarek smiled his most charming smile at Cottle. "Doctor, could I speak with you alone for a moment?"

Cottle frowned at him, then nodded and led him over to a more secluded corner of the infirmary. "All right, Zarek, what can I do for you?" he asked, lighting a fresh cigarette. "I'll tell you right now, if surgery is what it takes to get that thing off your face, I'll clear my schedule."

Sighing, Zarek removed the moustache and tucked it into his shirt pocket. _Rest easy for now, my friend,_ he thought. _You shall be avenged._

Cottle started to say something, doubtless cutting and moustache-related, but this time it was Zarek who interrupted him. "Doctor Cottle, can we be honest with each other?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Sure, why not. I know that most of the time I repress too much."

Zarek smiled good-naturedly as he inwardly retained a death-grip on what little remained of his patience. "Indeed. Look, I see that you're busy, Doctor, so I'm just going to tell you what I want so you can give it to me, and then I'll be on my way. Does that work for you, Doctor?" Just the faintest hint of patronization crept into the Vice President's voice.

Cottle eyed him suspiciously, and not just because it had been a long, long time since anyone had been stupid enough to patronize Doctor frakkin' Cottle. "Depends on what you want."

"The confidential medical records of the senior members of the _Galactica_ crew and the civilian government."

A long, long drag on the cigarette, and an equally long exhalation. "That's it, huh?"

"I assure you there's a vitally important reason for it, but unfortunately it's very, very confidential," Zarek said in the most gravitas-loaded tone he could muster, which, considering that it was Tom Zarek talking, was a hell of a lot of gravitas. "Government business, you see. I'm sure you'll understand."

Cottle nodded contemplatively, put out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray (the _Galactica's_ infirmary was unique in the annals of Colonial medical history in that it was the only medical facility ever to have more ashtrays than medical equipment), straightened his white coat, and cleared his throat. He didn't get many opportunities to tell Vice Presidents where to shove it (although the last holder of that position had provided him ample opportunities for ordinary insults), and wanted to make this count.

"Mr. Zarek, considering that I was aware of the President's cancer before most of the human race, was in on the President's plan to escape this ship _and _her plan to get rid of the hybrid kid, and have seen the inside of Adama's intestines (the man needs to eat more fibre, if you ask me), I think it's safe to say that I'm pretty much in the loop on most of the stuff that goes on around here. I _definitely_ would have been told about any secretive medical stuff. Which makes me think that you're pulling some crap with me, Zarek. So let me ask you this: can you give me one good reason why the hell I would give you the confidential records on anybody?"

Zarek smiled again, a bit more toothily this time. He'd hoped it would come to this. "Let me put it this way, Doctor," he said smoothly. "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'physician, heal thyself?"

"All the time, usually just before some idiot makes a crack about my smokes. You don't wanna do that, Mr. Vice-President, trust me."

"I see. And what about the phrase, 'physician, heal thyself from a point-blank gunshot wound to the head delivered when you least expect it?' Is that one familiar?"

"That's a new one on me," Cottle admitted.

"Yeah, there's a reason for that, Doctor." Another smile. "Do we understand each other?"

"I'm starting to understand that you're the sort of guy who makes sticking to the Hippocratic Oath awful hard." Cottle looked long and hard at the Vice President. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have been experiencing any back or neck pain, stiffness, anything like that?"

Tom was taken aback by the apparent non-sequiter. "Um… well, I'm not as young as I used to be, and there are the occasional cricks, but…"

"That's good enough for me. I happen to be a fully licensed chiropractor, and I'm prescribing an immediate spinal readjustment." Cottle cracked his knuckles. "You may feel a small amount of pain, followed by a really large amount of pain and a temporary inability to pull any more crap with me."

"Don't even think abo-" Zarek's words were cut off as Cottle's rough, strong hands suddenly seized him by the back of the neck and _pulled_. Tom gasped as his felt his spinal cord pop and stretch, none too pleasantly. Reacting swiftly, he stomped hard on Cottle's feet as the Doctor shoved him against a wall and began uncomfortably probing his backbone, but the multiple layers of tapped-off cigarette ash on Cottle's shoes had formed a sort of sedimentary substance comparable to rock, shielding his feet from Zarek's flailing. Around them, the patients and medics of _Galactica's_ infirmary went about their pantless business without batting an eye at two of the most important people in the Fleet locked in mortal struggle.

Trying to strike back, Zarek spun around and reached for Cottle's neck, trying to catch him in Tom's patented, worlds-famous Sagittarion Soul Strangler. But before Zarek's hands could achieve a suitably trachea-crushing purchase, Cottle's hands found a vertebrae in the small of his back and pushed it inwards as though it was a button. A very, very painful button.

Suddenly, Zarek couldn't move. His limbs were stiff and every inch of his body tingled, courtesy of Cottle's ministrations upon one of the more sensitive nerve clusters. But he was not numb enough to be spared pain and agony as the Doctor turned him back around and began to do things to his spine and nervous system which Zarek would have previously thought impossible. Pinned helplessly, the Vice President of the Colonies could do nothing but open his mouth and begin to scream.

* * *

Meanwhile, aboard _Colonial One, _Admiral Adama listened intently to Lieutenant Gaeta on the phone. In front of him, President Laura Roslin sat patiently as she waited to resume their meeting, which, so far, had been like all their other meetings: an excruciatingly awkward attempt to conduct the business associated with the survival of the human race without being distracted by any sort of tension, sexual or otherwise. Like all their other meetings, the second part of this attempt had been a complete failure.

"I understand, Lieutenant. Evacuate the infirmary, tell no one to interfere and keep me informed. Adama out." He set down the phone and sighed.

"Trouble?" Roslin asked.

"My ship's doctor appears to be beating the living hell out of your Vice-President."

"Hmm."

"Yeah."

"Admiral, do you ever worry that we pretty much let the Doctor do whatever he wants?"

Roslin smiled. Adama hated it when she smiled. It was the kind of smile that made it impossible for him to be badass. In fact, sometimes when she smiled that smile the Admiral got a sudden, inconceivable urge to give up his entire career, never again roll the hard six, and spend the rest of his life doing things to Roslin that the electorate would probably rather not know about. "He has saved both our lives," she said. "Besides, who would stop him?"

"Mm-hrrm." Adama nodded, and sipped his drink. "And I can't muster a lot of emotion on Tom Zarek's behalf." He scowled suddenly, and picked up the phone again. "Lieutenant Gaeta? If I remember correctly, I wanted this scotch _neat._" Faintly, Roslin could hear frantic excuses, pleading, and then sobbing coming over the phone. "We'll discuss this upon my return, Lieutenant, during my foot rub." Adama said. "Now then, where were we?"

Roslin cleared her throat. "Actually, Admiral, this reminds me. Specialist Cally came to see me today about her husband's workload."

"Really?" Adama frowned. "I didn't know Cally was enough of a big shot to get an appointment with the President."

"She was… insistent." Roslin's hand reached up to touch her ear, making sure her hair concealed the teeth marks. "Apparently, as a favour to you, Chief Tyrol is currently cleaning _Galactica's_ entire small ship complement with a single handkerchief."

"Yes he is. Doing a good job too," Adama said. "You know, if Cally gives you trouble, you can always airlock her. There's not many who'd miss her."

"Bill…" Roslin said softly. She leaned across the table and took his hand. "I know that there is almost no one in the Fleet who has worked harder to ensure the survival of humanity than you. I know that every one of us owes you his or her life at least once or twice over. I know that you're one hell of an Admiral, and that dropping the _Galactica_ into New Caprica's atmosphere was, quite simply, awesome. And I know damn well that you're fully entitled to indulge yourself a little and expect some gratitude from everyone as a result of all this."

"But…" she continued as she took Adama's other hand, which was notably sweaty at this point, "One of the reasons I've always admired you is your selflessness, and your absolute responsibility… how you never, ever flinch at all the stuff that gets put on your shoulders, and never ask for any reward." And then she smiled.

Adama knew resistance was futile against that smile. He let go of her hands- reluctantly- and picked up the phone again.

"Lieutenant Gaeta?"

"Yes sir?"

"Cancel my foot rub."

"Yes sir."

"Cancel filming on _Pimp My CIC_ and_ Pimp my Quarters, _as well as _Pimp my Log Book._"

"Yes sir."

"Remove the chandelier from CIC."

"Certainly, sir.

"Return all suits, alcohol, furniture, and bling to their respective owners."

"Right away, sir."

"And dispose of the… exotic herbal collectio-ow!" Roslin kicked him under the table. He looked at her, and she shook her head.

"Belay that last, Lieutenant Gaeta. The herbs stay." Roslin smiled. "Finally, tell Chief Tyrol to take the rest of the day off."

"Very good sir." Gaeta paused. "Um… will there be anything else sir?"

"Hrm? Oh, yeah. Tell everyone they can put their pants back on."

"Thank you, sir," said Gaeta, whose legs had been getting rather chilly.

"That'll be all, Lieutenant."

* * *

Zarek awoke slowly and painfully. Every single part of his body was in exquisite agony- except for his spine, which felt younger than it had in years.

The last thing he remembered was Cottle talking, no doubt saying something witty and triumphant, while turning Tom's spine into a pretzel. Apparently someone had been considerate enough to return him to his quarters aboard the _Astral Queen_ after he'd lost consciousness. Upon careful consideration, Zarek was unable to think of a single other thing which had gone right in a scheme which had pretty much hit rock bottom.

Tom hadn't gotten to where he was today by being stupid. He had nothing to show for his clever planning and fashionable moustache except major physical trauma and a bunch of dirty secrets too unspeakable for even Zarek to contemplate. Clearly it was time to give the whole thing up and focus on more important things.

Despite his body's strongly expressed wishes to not get up, nor, in fact, to do any sort of movement ever again, Zarek got up. He went to his desk. He got paper and a pen. And he started getting some real work done.

_Dear Laura,_

_I like you. Do you like me?_

* * *

MEANWHILE, ON THE BASESTAR CYLONICA…

"All right," the Cylon known as Boomer said to her assembled compatriots on the Basestar bridge, "before this meeting gets underway, we have a minor issue to address. Caprica? D'Anna?"

"Yes?" The two blondes said in way-too-innocent unison.

"Your sisters have been complaining again. This has to stop."

Caprica-Six and D'Anna Biers exchanged looks. "We really don't see the problem," Caprica said.

Boomer frowned. "Look, it's bad enough that you're in this messed-up threesome with a human-"

"A human who talks to himself," Cavil put in.

"-with a human," Boomer continued, "who quite possibly exemplifies all the reasons we tried to wipe them out in the first place. But for the human to be constantly mixing you up with the other Sixes and Threes? They don't like being randomly groped, and he doesn't seem to like being kicked in the crotch. Maybe if the two of you wore name tags or something?"

"Name tags?" asked Caprica.

"Or something," Boomer said. "I mean, it's not as though you _enjoy_ seeing Baltar constantly embarrassed, confused, ostracized and terribly… amusingly… hurt…" Boomer looked thoughtful. "Hmm."

"Hmm indeed," said D'Anna, smiling.

"Moving on then," said Boomer. "It's been a while since the humans escaped New Caprica, and I think we've all noticed a certain lack of direction in our attempts to exterminate them since then. This isn't acceptable. We're the Cylons, and we're supposed to Have A Plan."

"Excellent point," Leoben said. "And do you know what's a fantastic way of gaining direction and guidance? Divine inspiration. Which I just happen to have a lot of."

"Oh, not this again," sighed Cavil, putting his head in his hands.

"Now, I have been in regular touch with the Almighty from the get-go," Leoben said. "We're totally tight. And He, in His infinite wisdom, has been beaming me miraculous messages directly into my brain which have one, single, overriding theme. What God wants from us right now, people, is-"

"Leoben, I am telling you right now," D'Anna interrupted. "if the words 'Starbuck', 'Kara', 'Thrace', 'destiny', 'frak', 'love', or _any variations on them_ come out of your mouth, I'm calling an airlock vote."

"Yes, _please_," said Caprica. "You're not the only religious fanatic around here, you know. God never seems to tell the rest of _us_ that your perverted stalking carries with it divine blessing."

"You just aren't as immersed in His will as I am," Leoben said. "I'll have you know that the Hybrids always back me up on this. God. Wants. Me. To. Bone. Thrace."

"Leoben…"

"Bone her _hard._"

"LEOBEN!"

"It's destiny, you see."

"That does it, we're boxing him," Declared Caprica.

"One moment, Caprica," Doral said. "Leoben, how can you claim that the Hybrids share your obsession? They always speak gibberish."

"Maybe to someone who's not God's bestest friend in the whole world they do," Leoben scoffed. "But to someone with divine favour- like me- it's obvious that 'hydrogen cosmic puppy line goop quintillion duckie' translates to sweet, sweet Starbuck lovin."

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you yet more proof of my "There Is No God" thesis," Cavil proclaimed. "Now, if you'd all just listened to me and not gotten on this god-kick-"

"Okay, enough," said Boomer. "Leoben, traumatize us on your own time. Cavil, no blasphemy at meetings. Moving on..."

"I actually got her to kiss me, y'know. All it took was trapping her for months in a hellish, perverted fake marriage, plus a fake kid and me being stabbed to death a few times. Not a bad deal, as far as I'm-"

"Leoben. Shut up. Now. Does anyone have any non-insane suggestions to get our genocide back on track?"

"I have some suggestions, if I may," Simon spoke up.

Boomer wrinkled her face. "Um… which one were you again?"

"I'm Simon. I'm the guy who took Thrace's ovaries?"

"Which makes you a wonderful person," Leoben said dreamily.

"Leoben, shut the frack up. Random guy, go back to your corner and don't say anything else," Boomer said.

"This is ridiculous," Simon protested. "There are only seven of us, and I'm the only black guy! How can you not-"

"Hey! Corner! Now!" Boomer ordered. "D'Anna, if there's any more outbursts from the psycho, the heathen, or whathisface, you know what to do."

"I think this is very unfair. It's not my fault I've been underus-"

"AY-YI-YI-YI!" Three screamed as she hurled a chakram into Simon's chest.

"Thank you, D'Anna," Boomer said as Simon crumpled to the floor. "Now then…"

Doral cleared his throat. "People, I think it's clear by now that we're getting nowhere." He paused to look around for dissenting opinions, and saw none. "Now we can stay here killing each other until the season finale, or we can try something drastic to improve our focus and boost our creativity."

"What are you suggesting, Doral?" Boomer asked.

"Well… none of us are going to like it," Doral admitted. "But the good news is, it involves freaking out Baltar."

Agreement came swiftly after that.

* * *

"Look, all I am saying," Gaius Baltar said to the empty air in his quarters, "is if you can see the bloody future, it really shouldn't be that hard for you to, to help me out a little with telling the Threes and Sixes apart. I mean, it's not like you _enjoy _seeing me kicked in the crotch, right? Right?"

"Crazytime's over, Gaius," said Boomer as she marched into the room at the head of a procession of skinjobs and Centurions. "Here, take the kid for a while." She shoved a very confused Cylon-Human hybrid baby into the arms of a very confused Baltar. Things were not helped any by the fact that every non-metal Cylon was dressed fit for a Broadway revue.

"What… what's going on?" he stammered. Hera burped a similar sentiment.

"It's the end of the fanfiction, Gaius," Head-Six whispered in his ear from out of nowhere. "Time for the big musical finale."

"What?"

On cue, an entire wall of Baltar's room slid aside to reveal an old-fashioned wooden stage, which the Cylons promptly mounted. The Centurions' armoured chests opened up to reveal state-of-the-art speakers throbbing within.

"What?" Gaius said again. Hera gurgled.

And then the guitars started.

And the Cylons started dancing. Even the Centurions.

(Incidentally, the stage and speakers were installed before the attack on the Twelve Colonies for the planned Cylon Victory Bash which was supposed to celebrate the reduction of human civilization to radioactive ash. The party was eventually called off on account of the Cylons realizing that, infinite copies or not, a party with just seven people is still going to suck.)

"This- this is astounding," Baltar stammered. "Look, time is fleeting… and, and this madness… it takes its toll."

"Listen closely, Gaius," Head-Six murmured insistently.

"Not for very much longer," Baltar warned halfheartedly, eying the showgirl outfits the female Cylons were wearing. "I've got to keep control," he reminded himself before he did anything foolish.

Suddenly, Boomer burst into song.

"I remember," she proclaimed,

"doing the mind warp,

Drinking those moments when

I was the angstiest Cylon,

And everyone was watching…

Hey! Let's do the mind warp again!"

The assembled Cylons immediately took on Boomer's enthusiasm. "LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!"

As they began discussing improbable mindraks to throw at the Colonials, Head-Six began whispering to Baltar, pointing at Leoben.

"He causes Thrace's death,

But she'll be alright!

He'll kiss her on the lips,

While she dreams in the night!

But it's her Mommy issues,

Which really drive her insane-"

"LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!" Another bellowing chorus from the more tangible Cylons, who were really getting into it.

"Three should die!" Simon said. He was immediately decapitated by the Cylon in question, but the damage was done.

"While looking for the Eye!" They chorused. "She'll be seeing signs…"

"And Cavil will get all the best lines!" Doral suggested. The clergyman promptly celebrated this by throwing up the horns, as the rest of the Cylons finished off:

"Boomer will go crazy,

And try to off the baby… Yeah!

LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!"

All this chorus work was depriving Caprica-Six of her rightful place as centre of attention, so she seized this moment to launch into a solo:

"I'll pop over to the humans, turn into a fink,

'Cause Boomer's mind is on the brink!

Baltar will haunt me, tell how did Ellen die,

And I'll get a slap-fight with Colonel Tigh!

I'll have three-way visions and that'll be strange,

And Hera will be the centre of the story again!"

"LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!" The Cylons rang out.

"Don't forget the dirty tricks,

Courtesy of Jimi Hendrix!

They cause four of the Five,

To finally come alive!

And most of the time nobody sees us,

While Baltar starts to look like Jesus!

A great big speech by Lee,

And that's all for Season Three! Yeah!

LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!"

Head-Six began whispering to Baltar again.

"Starbuck comes back from her death,

And it's a hell of a sight!

She appears with the Fleet's ships,

Says she's a guiding light!

But it's Earth's pull-out shot,

That really drives you insane!"

She was suddenly drowned out by the Cylons building to a climax.

"LET'S DO THE MIND-WARP AGAIN!" They cried.

"LET'S DO THE-"

"Wait wait wait wait wait!" Cried one of the Leobens suddenly, arms in the air. "Hold it! Hold everything! I just got an IM from God." He paused, took a deep breath. "He says that although 'All Along the Watchtower's' definitive cover version was recorded by Jimi Hendrix, the song itself was originally written and performed by Bob Dylan."

"Oh." Caprica-Six looked crestfallen. "Well, that doesn't work at all then."

Doral agreed. "Might as well forget the whole thing." Apparently This was the cue for every single Cylon in the room to collapse on the floor and stop moving.

Baltar looked at them. They very obstinately did not look back. He tried to think of something intelligent or even sane to say, but all that came out was, "Say! Do any of you guys know the Madison?" Which, given the context, didn't even make sense.

No one answered. Baltar lifted up Hera, who had remained blessedly silent through the whole performance, and looked in her face for an answer. To his surprise, he got one.

She spoke to him in a deep voice. "This is indeed a disturbing universe."

This was the last straw for Baltar. He fainted.

* * *

A/N: That's about as far as I can drag this particular parody without having it fall into insanity… although that line may have been crossed when Rocky Horror got mixed with Cylons. Oh, well. There'll be a sort-of sequel picking up on Zarek's hopelessly cute crush on Roslin… hopefully before Season 4 starts. Because like I said, shit happens too damn fast on this show for me to keep up.

Thanks to everyone who read this story and especially those who took the time to tell me they liked it; looking back on its silly beginnings with Zarek and a stuffed daggit, I'm glad that I was able to make this many people laugh with this story.


End file.
